Jayden Stark's POV
The alarm buzzed faintly, but I was already awake. My eyes opened to the same cracked ceiling of my Brooklyn apartment, the same silence that followed me every morning. Sleep hadn't been restful—it never was. The dream came again, the one reminding me of my past life, of the world I left behind before reincarnating here.
Two lifetimes. Two chances. And now, this one.
I reached for the remote on the desk, clicked the TV on, and let the noise fill the room. The news anchor's voice was background static until the camera cut to a face I knew too well.
Tony Stark.
The billionaire genius. The playboy. The man the world adored. And my brother.
We didn't look alike, didn't share a bond, but we shared blood. Howard Stark was our father. My mother had been the result of his affair, and I was the consequence. A bastard child born into shadows while Tony inherited the empire.
My mother tried to build a life for us, but she married the wrong man. An abusive drunk who eventually landed in prison. By then, she was gone, leaving me alone with nothing but the Stark name.
I had tried once to reach out to Tony, to tell him who I was. I thought maybe he'd understand, maybe he'd care. But I was wrong. This Tony wasn't the Iron Man I remembered from my past life. He was arrogant, dismissive—a jerk. The humiliation of that day still burned in my chest.
No one cared about Howard Stark's bastard son. Sometimes I wondered why I still carried the surname. Maybe I was chasing validation, proof that I wasn't just a mistake. Or maybe I was lying to myself.
Either way, seeing Tony's face on the screen filled me with anger.
I shut off the TV and dragged myself out of bed. Work awaited.
My Mother
I remember her laugh. It wasn't loud, but it had warmth, the kind that made our small apartment feel less empty. She worked long hours at a diner, always coming home smelling of coffee and grease, but she never complained.
"Jay," she used to say, ruffling my hair, "you're going to be someone important one day. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
I believed her. Back then, I didn't care that I was a Stark bastard. I only cared about her smile, the way she saved coins in a jar for my school supplies, the way she shielded me from the man she married.
That man—my stepfather—was a storm. Loud, violent, unpredictable. I remember nights hiding under the bed, listening to his rage echo through the walls. My mother always tried to protect me, but she paid the price. Bruises she covered with makeup, tears she hid behind forced smiles.
The day she died, I felt something break inside me. She had been my anchor, the only person who made me believe I wasn't just a mistake. Without her, the world felt colder.
That's why I still carry the Stark name. Not for Tony, not for Howard. For her. Because she believed I mattered.
My job wasn't glamorous—I was a comic book artist for a small publisher tucked away in Brooklyn. The pay was modest, enough to keep me afloat without resorting to crime or begging. It wasn't much, but it was mine.
The walk to work was routine. Brooklyn's streets were alive with honking cars, vendors shouting over one another, and the smell of bagels and coffee drifting from corner shops. I blended into the crowd, just another face in the city.
At the office, I settled into my desk, surrounded by stacks of sketches and ink-stained pages. Hours passed in a blur of deadlines and creative frustration. By evening, my hand ached from drawing, my mind numb from staring at panels.
When the day finally ended, I grabbed a box of pizza—my dinner—and started the walk home.
The streets were quieter now, shadows stretching long under the glow of streetlights. I carried the pizza under one arm, my thoughts drifting back to Tony. No matter how much I tried to ignore him, his presence lingered. He was everywhere—on TV, in magazines, in the whispers of people who admired him.
I was so lost in thought that I almost missed it.
A faint blue glow flickering from a dumpster.
Curiosity tugged at me. I slowed, peering into the trash. Something was pulsing with light, buried beneath discarded boxes and scraps.
I set the pizza down and reached in, pulling the object free.
My breath caught.
The Omnitrix.
The watch-like device was unmistakable. Sleek, alien, humming with energy. I stared at it, disbelief flooding me.
"What the hell…?" I muttered.
It didn't belong here. Not in this universe. This was Marvel's world, not Ben 10's. Yet here it was, sitting in my hands.
Maybe it was a toy, I thought. Some elaborate replica tossed away. But no—the weight, the glow, the hum of power told me otherwise. This was real.
I stood there for a long moment, the pizza forgotten, the city noise fading into the background.
Finally, I slipped the device under my arm and headed home.
Back in my apartment, I placed the Omnitrix on the desk and stared at it. The blue light pulsed steadily, almost hypnotic.
It shouldn't exist here. And yet, it did.
I reached out, hesitating before my fingers brushed against its surface. The hum grew louder, resonating through the room. My heart pounded.
This wasn't just a relic. It was power. Infinite power.
And it was mine now.
I didn't know it then, but that single choice—to take the Omnitrix—was the spark that would change everything.